Chapter Text
My name is Millie of Thistledown, which confuses some people. In District 9, we like to do names a bit differently, so instead of surnames, we have the village we originated from. They say that your village tells everyone all that they need to know about you; the way you grew up, your moral code, what you do for work when not trying to fill the mill quotas…
Unfortunately, the name ‘Millie’ is a dime a dozen in 9, but not in Thistledown. I am the only Millie in my town. The majority of us Millies are named after someone else, but my momma chose to name me after a story.
My momma loved stories. All of the words she whispered in my ear while trying to get me to sleep as a young child stuck, and now the same stories she told float around in my noggin. Unfortunately, my momma was taken by the famine that was given to 9 because the Capitol reformers didn’t like how out-of-hand we were, despite not even being one of the more rebellious ones. At least, that’s what my papa says.
My papa doesn’t care for stories, but he does care for honor and tradition. He has always told me that the people of District 9 never quit, not even when they lose a loved one. There is work to be done, and people to be helped. My father wanted to name me a much more unique thing, after my grandmother, but he realized that he would much rather have me blend in than stick out like a sore thumb. Unique people tend to…disappear, over the years.
I lived in the ‘Rebellious Period’ for eleven years. Honestly, I don’t remember much of it because the last two years were full of everyone being super concerned and scared about the threats the Capitol was making, or trying to handle the major crop and human losses from the plague.
It’s weird, because in those eleven years, it felt like we were making so much progress. Things were really moving along. People were experimenting with doing things other than farming. People came and left, and instead of the majority of us having blonde hair and dark eyes, there were now people of every hair, skin, and eye color. People from 7 and 8, people from 10 and 11. My papa had even considered moving to, up to District 5.
But now, for the five years the Capitol has divided us all again, things have felt very…stagnant. Every summer is the same, watching two of us leave, and getting two boxes returned. They’re usually from the most populous and central town of Raincurrent, where the Reapings are held.
I am sixteen this summer, the summer of ‘80, and it is yet again stagnant. My papa and I make sure everyone is protecting their crops with pesticides, and we try to help out when we can. It’s the Thistledown way, he tells me. You don’t just leave people with no options. When we’re done with that, we go to do our mandated work in the Capitol mill of Raincurrent, usually taking a horse-drawn wagon to get there. I carry the processed beach white flour in a large basket and bring it to be packaged. My papa works in the line. I send him comforting smiles every now and then, both a question and an answer. I’m okay. Are you?
Our Reaping takes place at 5:00 PM. The workers are usually the first to get there, and the farmers who live up further north have a ride of four-to-five hours on wagon to get here, so they usually come in large heaps. My papa and I embrace each other before we are separated.
“Two more years, Mils,” he says.
“Two more years.” I respond. It’s been our tradition since I turned twelve. Just a reminder of how close I am to getting out of the whole sticky mess that is the Games. My papa taught me well, despite neither of us being educated; the Games harbor no good.
Nobody goes into the Reapings expecting to be picked. While we don’t get a lick of our own grain or wheat or paid at all for our work, we do have our own market in Raincurrent, which takes trades or solvex. So, not many people have to take tesserae. Those who usually do are the people who live further up north, who have a harder time getting down to the more densely-populated south. The northerners have darker features. I dunno why. The northerners tend to prefer isolation, as well. People don’t seem all that sad when a northerner has to leave and not come back.
In 9, since the Games have begun again, it has been viewed as dishonorable to win. The ones who die, which has been all eight we have sent since the 76th, are the heroes, because they didn’t give into the violence of the Games. They didn’t sacrifice their humanity just to have another day to live.
Mayor Eichhorn rambles on and on about the importance about the Games, about how the stricter work mandations are our fault, that kind of stuff. The Mayor is an older man, his hair all white now. Some say its the stress of his job. Others suggest its a curse for openly supporting the Capitol. People shuffle restlessly as he speaks.
Finally, the Mayor leaves and sits on one of two chairs. Next, a stout man with the bright Capitol clothing comes onto the stage. His hair has been shaved clean off his head, leaving a pattern of tattoos. His mustache and beard are cut into weird, geometric shapes. He is our escort, Justice.
There are a lot of rumors about Justice. Everyone knows that he doesn’t use half of the effort that the other escorts do. Apparently, he only entered the workforce behind the Hunger Games because he lost a stupid bet—that rumor was spread by a bartender who had claimed he heard him drunkenly rambling about it when he went to the Raincurrent tavern to drink before the Reapings. Some northerners call him ‘the Heartless Man’. My papa doesn’t like that name, because he thinks it implies that Capitolites had any heart in the first place.
“Happy 80th Hunger Games,” Justice grumbles into the microphone. “I am…honored to be your escort for another year. The lucky tributes should be honored to be your representatives this year as well. Maybe they won’t die in the first five minutes, as they have every other year…”
People grouse in protest. The two who went last year were both young. The arena was red desert mountains. They were lost and confused. None of it spelled well for them.
Justice delivers his words with a bored manufactured quality. They are the same ones he has said every year, since the 76th. The escorts are supposed to encourage us to be interested in the Games, but Justice just doesn’t seem to care much at all.
“As per usual, a female and male between the ages of twelve and eighteen will be Reaped to…”
I drown him out. Mayor Eichhorn already said the exact same things. At least he tried to sound like he believed them. Instead, I adjust the straw hat which I got from the wife of a farmer who my papa and I helped out, and play with the hem of my momma’s old sundress. I tied a ribbon around my hat, a fine black satin one. I think it looks distinguished, and it protects the golden curls which I try so hard to protect.
Finally, Justice finishes, and he looks back out over the crowd. “Without further ado, the female tribute will be pulled first.” Lazily, he dips a hand into the Reaping bowl, shuffling around the papers. He pulls one out eventually. “Eh…Mylie of Thistledown.”
I stumble a bit, my mouth parting slightly. My lips feel all dry. There’s nobody named Mylie in my town. Which means he meant Millie. He meant me. I’m the female tribute for my District this year. I don’t try to correct him on the pronunciation.
The other sixteen-year-old girls around me give me resigned looks, like they are picturing my face in those cramped boxes already. They don’t move when I begin trying to navigate out of the pen, so I rub up uncomfortably against a bunch of people. Eventually, I stumble out into the beaten path. Everyone’s eyes are on me.
I turn briefly, just to look at my papa. He meets my eyes and sees the despair. He shakes his head. I know what he’s telling me. Be strong.
The Peacekeepers are getting impatient. The one standing near the back of the pens, where the rowdier eighteen year old boys are, turns their helmeted head towards me. “Get a move on, girlie.”
I awkwardly begin walking to the stage. Heads turn to follow me. A few farmers towards the back and lined up on the sides gasp as they see me. They say to each other, “look, it’s the girl with the golden hair. The one who helps with the farms in Thistledown for only a small price? Ain’t that tragic?”
I get to the steps, which have been covered in dust. A strong breeze comes through, ruffling my skirt and trying to take away my hat. I readjust it before I continue onto the stage.
The first thing I think is, I can barely see the sixteen-year-olds from here. It’s hard to see the dividing pens at all, actually. It just looks like the youngest are in the front of the crowd and the people get taller based on how far back they are.
Justice regards me silently, for only a moment. His eyes trace my straw hat and go all the way down to my worn boots. There is nothing predatory about his stare. He looks at me like I am just another corpse. But the way the Capitol sees corpses and the people of 9 do are very different. I have him beat in height by an inch or two.
He turns back to the Reaping bowl. “Now, for the boy.” He pulls out a name much quicker now. “Harvest of Greenmills.”
I instantly see the divide happening in the fourteen-year-old boys section. A boy is spat out. He is definitely a northerner, with his dark mop of hair, but light green eyes. And his name—Harvest. Most northerners give their kids names related to farming. They think it gives them good luck. A miller, too, from his face having dirt on it. He wears old overalls which seem just a bit too big for him over a work shirt. I think I see a woman crying in the crowd, but she’s too far away to tell.
Harvest of Greenmills is a boy who definitely just started getting those changes boys get at his age. There is an awkward length to his arms and legs. He is taller than me. The way he moves, too, like he isn’t used to his new height, or his bigger hands, or being mature at all, gives him away.
He walks a bit quicker than me, like he just wants to get it over with. He extends a hand to Justice, who shakes it in turn. Justice seems a bit surprised by the gesture.
Harvest stands next to me. I feel his gaze on my body, as though trying to figure out if I can be trusted. I don’t meet it.
“These are your tributes for the 80th Hunger Games. Let’s give them a hand.” Nobody claps. Not even Justice, or Mayor Eichhorn. Justice sniffs and rubs his nose. “May the odds be…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. People begin to shuffle out, and the noise of thousands of people moving at the same time dissuades him. He turns to us. “You can go into the Justice Building now. You have four minutes for any goodbyes you want to have with your family or friends.”
We are guided into two separate rooms. Mine has a comfortable couch. After a minute, my papa comes into the room. “Oh, Mils,” he says. “I…I don’t know what to say.” He sits down next to me, brushing my golden hair over one ear. “I didn’t expect this.”
“Papa, it’s okay. I didn’t, either.” It is obvious to me that he is trying very hard to be strong right now. His fingers work into the fuzz of the couch. His knee bounces restlessly.
“Try your hardest. Be strong. Don’t let them see you weak. They want to break you. Okay?” Papa says, moving his hand to my shoulder.
“I know, Papa.” I pause. “I love you. And I won’t let them take me away from you.”
Papa nods, but even he seems resigned. My promise is empty. The Capitol has already taken from him. Instead, he reaches up and, keeping eye contact the whole time, removes the black ribbon from my straw hat and ties my golden curls with it. “Thistledown will watch and support you. And I will always be proud of you no matter what.”
“I love you,” I say again.
Before he can respond, he is removed from the room by the Peacekeeper stationed outside.